


Silent Circus

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin has a hard time coping, but Maglor is there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Circus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts), [sassynails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassynails/gifts).



“Uncle,” Maglor flatly said, sensing Fingolfin's presence in the doorway. He raised his head and turned. “I see you came again.”

Fingolfin stepped inside the room, nodding to the attendant who had accompanied him to the Fëanorians' settlement, giving him a curt order to wait outside. The youth nodded. Fingolfin closed the door and turned the key in the lock, as silently as possible. 

“The usual?” Maglor queried, standing up from his desk.

Fingolfin silently assented. He wouldn't use words for what he regarded as a shameful weakness. Standing there was awkward enough, but he couldn't help it. He needed it. 

He needed something to fill the emptiness that ate at him. He wasn't sure whether it was the inclement stillness of the Ice which had permeated not only his body but his spirit too, or if his half-brother had taken something from him, something that couldn't be replaced, by dying. It would not have been out of character for Fëanáro. 

Of course, the first time had been accidental. He would never have actively sought something like that. He had drunk too much during a dinner, because his nephews' presence, their gazes, the way they spoke, their littlest gestures, were too much of a burden, because he didn't like the red tint the sun took on as it sank, because the very atmosphere of that place was wrong and made him feel even more hollowed out. And then the sound of Maglor's voice as he sang an old cheerful ballad had been terribly soothing in his intoxicated state. Therefore he had accepted, on a subsequent visit, when Maglor had offered to let him try the draught they had forced Curufin to drink after Fëanáro's death. 

It had been the only way, Maglor said, to prevent his brother from losing himself to grief.

The draught worked wonders on him, too. It made the emptiness that harrowed him less keen for a while. It made him feel light-hearted, content. It made him forget the nagging feeling – almost a certainty – that they were all going to die, with _him_ as their King now, with a responsibility to see it through. 

Maglor walked over to the cabinet in the corner. He took out a small rectangular wooden casket, unlocked it, and took out the three jars containing dried herbs from Valinor, a small sample from the twins' collection. He put a pinch of each inside a wooden goblet, ground them to a coarse powder and doused them with warm water from a pitcher. 

Fingolfin stared at the liquid and the small bits of leaves that had escaped the pestle after Maglor passed it to him. He drank it all at one gulp. It tasted awfully bitter and made him retch, but he liked the feeling of it washing over his throat. 

Maglor reached up to undo the laces of this mantle, his fingers as deft working on them as they were on musical instruments, and took off his outer tunic while they waited for the draught to take effect. 

Fingolfin's pupils began to dilate, until they reduced his iris to a thin line of blue-grey and his vision became blurred – the contours of objects lost their clarity and Maglor's face itself was stripped of the most sharp traits that made it so different from his father's. 

When he began to sway, Maglor took him by the hand and led him to a divan, where he sat down. Fingolfin lay on his side, head pillowed on his nephew's legs, curled up in a position that afforded him snugness, warmth and a sense of protection. 

“What would you like me to sing today, Uncle?” Maglor asked, as he ever did on those occasions. He brushed his hand on Fingolfin's hair, combing it from his face and tucking it behind his ear.

Fingolfin mewled softly at the touch, a pleasant shiver chasing tension away from his body. “The Ballad of Madness.”

Maglor hummed his assent and began singing. 

Fingolfin didn't properly hear then. Maglor's voice manifested to him in sudden bursts of light and colour, which became more intense every time it rose. Although there was no instrument, he could conjure the sound of plucked strings as Maglor's fingers fluttered down his face and neck, silent music played on his own skin. His body felt weightless. He swam through air, with none of the stiffness that had encumbered him through the Ice, none of the despondency that burdened him now. 

The song ended, but Maglor kept stroking his skin, exposing more of it by undoing the collar of his shirt. His hand slipped inside it, and made its way to the spot where his heartbeat was strongest, and lay there, tenderly. Then he bent down, his curly hair tickling Fingolfin's face, and whispered in his ear – it was the last thing Fingolfin heard before plunging into a world of sweet illusions – : “you will make such a good King.”


End file.
